


burn it, bury it, cherish it

by tenderthings



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Character Study, Drabble Collection, F/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Sarcastic Hawke, Slow Burn, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 10,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderthings/pseuds/tenderthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke: flirty, sarcastic, and lacking in personal space. It’s a farce; Fenris understands that but little less. </p><p>So, he watches.</p><p>(in which Fenris is observant and Hawke  expresses her love for her companions in different ways over the years and how they return that love.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fenris I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critiques are appreciated and encouraged!
> 
> [Newly edited and updated: 29/3/18]

* * *

  

“I love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald

 

* * *

 

When he reveals himself to her, Hawke does not falter. Instead, she grins—small, strained, and surely surprised, but impressed.

There’s a twinkle in her eye as he explains the purpose of his deception and more. She readily agrees to his plan, despite the grumbled opposition of the boy he later learns to be her brother. Fenris should have known then and there that Hawke was no ordinary mercenary: She had too much fever in her. He notices, but Fenris’ need is too great and sometimes one has to put their hand in the fire to make sure it’s met.

They depart first, up the stairs to rendezvous later in Hightown. As they pass, the boy gives Fenris a sharp look that is met with complete impassivity—his gaze then switches back to his sister’s stead and Fenris cannot say if it is protectiveness or some strangled, childish need to prove himself that causes Carver to gravitate a little closer than the others. He’s obliged to follow, however, and that’s the first thing Fenris understands about Hawke:

She leads, they follow, whether they like it or not. He certainly doesn’t, in the beginning.

She’s a mage that laughs at the idea of magisters and blood magic, summons ice to quell the heat of rage demons, and directs flames fit to swallow the city.

She’s a mage whom he is indebted to.

She’s a mage and he must keep his eye on her.

In return, several sets of eyes look upon him. One is mischievous, brazen, and all too happy to have him shadowing her steps.

(Loving her, wanting her, needing her was only a matter of time for all of them.)

Hawke introduces Fenris to the Hanged Man a few weeks later. He wasn’t so much as invited as he was brought along, their latest contractor waiting at the bar with each portion of the bounty. Fenris intended to take his share and leave before the stench of piss and soot suffocates him, but Hawke decides to shove a drink in his hand instead.

He stares at the murky liquid with justified suspicion.

“Poison is meant to be subtle—” He looks up, brow arched. “— Hawke.”

She lets out a loud, airy chuckle that’s too sudden, too familiar, and mostly drowned out by the rabble of the tavern. It somehow manages to ring in his ears.

“Now where would I get poison?” she says.

He might’ve answered, but the way she tilts her head and leans in with a smirk silences him.

She’s close, he realizes, closer than he’d like, but there is no cause for concern despite his instincts and her reputation.

“Come along,” she says, “have a drink with us.”

She doesn’t touch him, though she means to, her hand moving a fraction from her side to reach out and grab him, playfully. When he glances at it, she understands.

She drops her hand and takes a step back, ending the unwarranted intimacy. Deep, sharp, he inhales the earthy scent of her hair and the stench of the tavern as he wills his thoughts to clear.

“Alright,” she confesses, flippant and ignorant of the choking tension between them, or pretending to be so. He never knows with Hawke. “I need an extra man at the table before Varric and Isabela rob us all blind.”

“Gambling?”

“Diamonback.” She shrugs. “Same difference.”

She motions to the table in the center of the room where the dwarf is setting out the cards, Isabela is pouring drinks, Carver is half-drunk, Aveline looks annoyed while the abomination stares in horror at his mug and Merrill watches everything and everyone with vivid fascination, if slightly shaken in an alien world. They’re all poorly acquainted at this point, but that doesn’t bother Hawke, bent on getting drunk and losing her coin like they’re common souls, like she’s a common creature.

He hesitates; his marks itch.

“Another night,” he says before carefully passing the mug back into her hand.

There’s a brief contact of skin—her fingertips along the butt of his palm—and an ache. It makes his skin burn hotter—not just his markings, he recalls later—before sizzling down to a tingle, a hum, then nothing at all. Gone, in a second.

He stares ahead and notes the color of Hawke’s hair in the low light of the tavern as she turns away. She becomes indifferent to his presence and he goes quietly into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@tenderthings](tenderthings.tumblr.com) on tumblr


	2. Varric I

* * *

 

“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”

― Sylvia Plath, _The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath_

 

* * *

 

Varric, the bastard, strong-arms Fenris into joining the expedition during the earlier stages of planning.

Oh, the pay is good and Fenris is better skilled than most, but it’s several weeks below surface and that could be several weeks of potentially catching hair or tail of Danarius.

At first, Fenris flat out refuses, but where Hawke is lax with Fenris, Varric is persistent.

“Come on, elf. We need you. Hawke needs you.”

He doesn’t hook him on the first catch, or the second, or third. In fact, it's a few days before they settle on an agreement, but Varric sees something Fenris never realized he gave up.

(Right from the start, Varric knew—he knew.)

From that point on, Varric uses Hawke as leverage a lot more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critiques are appreciated and encouraged!


	3. Merrill I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 29/3/18]

* * *

 

“I got one friend laying across from me

I did not choose him, he did not choose me”

— “Hospital Beds” by Cold War Kids

 

* * *

 

The way Hawke panders after the blood mage is worrying, to say the least.

She treats Merrill with kindness and a soft hand, never raising her voice when they’ve all seen Hawke’s intolerance for blood magic and demons. But with Merrill—Merrill, she takes great care, always tender, always soft, and, at times, even empathetic. It confuses him, but not in such a way that he ever asks why. In truth, he doesn’t want to know.

One particular incident is the day he catches Hawke unlike he’s ever seen her: Basket in hand, void of armor and “quarterstaff”, instead wearing a dress and corset, face clean of blood and grime, but a hint of rouge on her cheeks and pink on her lip. It was the altogether normal appearance of a young woman just shy of twenty-six.

It’s a startling sight and temptation for any gullible thief in Lowtown, but they know better because they know Hawke. Fenris realizes he does not.

She spots him first and the next thing he knows, she’s walking towards him, easy and smooth through the market crowd.

She smiles and he forgets to greet her as he takes in how... _natural_ she looks.

“For Merrill,” she says when his eyes finally fall on the basket. It’s meager really; she reveals nothing more than bread, cheese, and jellied delights, but it’s a welcomed embrace nestled beneath an embroidered cloth.

(In the space of half-complete thoughts, he ponders if she’d ever to do such a thing for him.)

“Feeding the blood mages now?”

The Lowtown market is bustling at midday, but he keeps his voice low for her peace of mind and that smile turns into a grin, a tilt in her lips that screams danger and something he comes to understand much, much later.

“I take it you’ve yet to send your neighbors a fruit basket? Maybe some of those expensive Rivani nuts?”

“And build up a reputation to rival Danarius’?” he drawls. “Perish the thought.”

They’ve shared little more than a drink with each other but wit comes easy. She laughs, hard and short, before she purses her lips shut to resist another bout.

There’s a moment where neither know what to say before she reaches into her basket and pulls out a jar of jam, tied neatly with a straw bow.

What was this? A reward for his silence?

“Don’t look so offended, Fenris.”

She leans in, inches from his face—it takes all his strength not to react, to not think of it as an attack or count the freckles across her face.

“Even you need to eat,” she says and plops the jar into his hands. She likes doing that, apparently.

With that, she leaves him in the dust of Lowtown, throwing one last glance over her shoulder before she’s gone.

He stares at the strawberry-red jar and forgets why he’s come here in the first place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A picnic with Hawke & Co. definitely happened at some point.


	4. Sebastian I

* * *

  

“I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don't want to be sane.”

―Neil Gaiman,  _Neverwhere_   

 

* * *

 

“Nice aim.”

Hawke’s tone is enough means for the Maker to set her on fire, right then and there.

(The words “Hawke, no” once had happier connotations.)

Sebastian is intentionally slow on the uptake, thankfully.

Fenris sighs. At least he’s used to her by now.

 


	5. Carver I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 29/3/18]

* * *

 

“We carry our families like anchors, rooting us in storms, making sure we never drift from where and who we are. We carry our families within us the way we carry our breath underwater, keeping us afloat, keeping us alive.”

― Erika Swyler, _The Book of Speculation: A Novel_

 

* * *

 

The brother-sister “duo” have never been civil. The younger bites and growls at every decision the elder makes. Hawke―for she is _the_ Hawke; it’s a good three months before Fenris learns her first name―rolls her eyes, explains how and why, or simply dismisses Carver when she can’t be bothered to retort, her more preferred choice as of late. In turn, her little brother grows angrier, meaner, pent up by her cool expression and leveled-head yet apparent carelessness.

On the night Fenris agrees to stay for drinks, Carver gets smashed and starts a fight. Wonders never cease.

They’re playing cards when a man comes flying in, sliding across their table and into the nearest wall.

Hawke doesn’t even look up from her hand. She just sighs and sets her cards down, motioning for them to stay seated while she rises.

“Already handled,” she says.

Fenris isn’t entirely convinced and watches for the slightest show of magic.

Within the span of seconds, all-hell breaks loose and at the center of it is Carver Hawke, snarling, swearing, and swinging his fists, calling out everybody and their mother. His military training shows in the brunt of his hits, but that does him little good drunk and his side-steps have him tripping instead of evading and Varric can’t stop himself from laughing.

Hawke moves through the upheaval with a surprising amount of deft, dodging whatever flying man or object comes her way. She waits, mild-mannered, for the ugly pair Carver has picked out for the night to get the upper hand.

Another man is thrown aside and the bartender gives a girlish cry as Carver is slammed face first into the bar-top.

Aveline stands, devoid of guard armor, but Hawke is quicker on the uptake.

The brute holding Carver down by the arm doesn’t expect the tap on his shoulder or the fist that follows. He loses his balance, but only for a moment and he comes back with a broken nose and a snarl meaner than a mabari.

A grin, all-teeth, and she lurches forward before Carver can gather his wits. The companions are all surprised to find that she’s all muscle beneath those robes too.

Varric whistles, Isabela cheers; these kinds of nights are almost regular during the time Carver is with them.

(“Better days,” Hawke laughs into her cup and Leandra rolls in her grave.)

The siblings start out better than they end. More often than not, Hawke is the one to drag them home, bloody-mouthed and battle-worn, with enough ale in their bellies to put down a war horse.

Hawke is unfazed by Carver when he pushes her away, as she always is, as he always does. He insists he can walk on his own. She never lets him.

She catches him whenever or wherever he stumbles, in and out of the tavern. Carver snaps back and the way she flinches at his slurred words does not go unnoticed by Fenris or the others. Bethany’s corpse lays between them, resentment heavy in the air and Carver is far from kind on nights like these. Still, she is his sister. Carver falls into her arms again, slumping his head on her shoulder, defeated as he allows Hawke to take them both home.

 


	6. INTERLUDE: Bethany

Hawke rarely speaks of her sister, but when she does, Varric keeps those stories out of the books.

Bethany is the one ghost that never leaves her, the one death that had a hand in making her rather than breaking her, and it might be her greatest regret yet—that she lives and Bethany does not. 


	7. Isabela I

* * *

 

“Standing in the eye of the storm  
My eyes start to roam  
To the curl of your lips  
In the center of eclipse  
In total darkness I, I reach out and touch”  


— “Touch” by Troye Sivan

 

* * *

 

Hawke and Isabela are far too similar for anyone’s liking. At first glance, they’re mirrors—two blasphemers bent on nothing and everything as long as the coin is good. So, no one is surprised the night both women slip away from their game and into one of their own, nor is anyone amazed when one night becomes several and Carver is less than pleased about the whole thing.

(Isabela enjoys bragging rights and Fenris finds fault only in how much Varric loves it.)

Once, Fenris catches them on his way back into Hightown. It’s nothing more than a stray, airy gasp on an otherwise innocent evening that catches his attention, but he knows them well enough—and such admittance is odd by itself—to know it’s them, fucking in the alleyway.

Two bodies pressed together in the dark, sighs and moans as sweet as any siren’s call.

Hawke’s eyes glint in the moonlight, catching his for a split second.

She’s pinned to the wall, her fingers looking for something to hold on to as Isabela descends to her knees. Fenris leaves them to it, Hawke’s muffled giggling having him shake his head in dry amusement.

 


	8. Aveline I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 29/3/18]

* * *

 

“Things we lost to the flames  
Things we'll never see again  
All that we've amassed  
Sits before us, shattered into ash”

— “Things We Lost in the Fire” by Bastille

  

* * *

 

It’s amazing how willing they all are.

He knows why he remains. She may be an apostate, cavorting with other apostates, but she’s also a woman to whom he owes a debt that keeps his pockets filled. His purpose is simple, as are the others’. Aveline’s, however, is less so.

The quest into the Deep Roads is a week or more away and despite obtaining the Grey Warden maps, Varric and Hawke have deemed Anders vital to the expedition.

Fenris watches on, as is necessary.

“…a healer and a Warden, Blondie…”

The abomination looks down at the dwarf, pensive. The ire is lost when Hawke intervenes, placing a hand on Anders’ shoulder.

They pause: Anders listens to Hawke’s compromise and relaxes.

Meanwhile, Fenris keeps a good distance from the clinic, stood beside Aveline, where Hawke instructed them to wait. The yet-to-be guard captain fidgets, fists curling and uncurling every now and again. They’re surrounded by crime, but more than that, they’re surrounded by countrymen, misery, and slow death, everything she and Hawke live and breathe day in, day out. Aveline has risen, though meagerly in hindsight. She does not make her home in Lowtown anymore or take her business to Darktown, but the attachment lingers.

Hawke lingers.

Fenris and Aveline don’t typically make polite conversation, so when she speaks up, Fenris is more than a little surprised.

“I wonder how many of these people came with us on the ships,” she says.

Two children run past, dirty and shoeless. Far off, someone screams at them.

Aveline rests her hand on the hilt of her sword and the screaming stops.

“Dozens? Hundreds?”

He looks at her from the corner of his eye. “Do you not know?”

Her gaze, meanwhile, follows the children until they disappear into the dirt and smoke and the aging bodies of cheated Ferelden youths.

“Something needs to be done,” she mutters, after a long moment.

His attention returns to Hawke and Varric. They look about ready to leave if the slight shine of satisfaction on their faces was anything to go by.

Fenris speaks without thought, but his voice is the only honest thing present in this place.

“It is what it is.”

Aveline shifts, amazed then perplexed all over again.

What he says is a disservice to every wrong he means to right, but it’s the truth. A good guardsman knows it; a survivor has lived it. Aveline can only fit into one role at a time.

“It shouldn’t be,” she says.

“Very little is,” is his reply.

A string of moans and groans echo from the clinic’s open doors. From one side of the hobble to the other, Anders dashes. Hawke follows while Varric lingers at the threshold, one foot in, the other out.

Fenris can’t see what he is happening, but it becomes pained, agonizing. They all look on, holding their breaths. It’s an hour, maybe less, of watching, waiting, and willing for something to change before a small cry suddenly relieves the tension and Aveline’s reply is lost somewhere in-between a strong pair of lungs.

Hawke steps into the view allowed by the doorways, holding a small bundle. It screams up at her. If it were anything else on any other day, Hawke would scream back. Instead, she hands the babe to a poor midwife, cleans the blood off her hands, and bids Anders goodbye.

Just like that.

With Varric in tow, she gives a curt reprise of the new arrangements.

“—in case things go wrong, it'll be good to have him with us. I’m not much of a healer.” Hawke pauses and glances at Fenris. At this point in their companionship, he doesn’t need to interrupt for Hawke to know how much he doesn’t approve. He appreciates that she knows this too. When he doesn’t interject, she continues. The rush of new life and new ventures drifts from her face, and there is no more mirth left in her voice as she finally asks, “I won't demand this either of you. I want you to come, only if you're willing. Fenris?”

He nods. His reasons have not changed in the past hour. Varric poorly hides his smile.

Hawke turns her head. “Aveline?”

The woman looks around, aimless because there’s half a dozen things wrong with this place, with this moment, and Aveline slips from guard to survivor in a beat.

Hawke smiles, small but understanding.

“I’ll bring you back something nice. Maybe a gem or a darkspawn tooth. Right, Varric?”

The dwarf snorts. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find enough of both to line the walls of the barracks. Consider it your ascendancy-to-captain present. How’s that?”

Aveline scowls, but there’s no denying how half-hearted it is.

On their way back to Lowtown, Aveline and Hawke walk side-by-side, speaking little, but when they do it is neither for the dwarf nor the elf to hear.

The two women part on—

A nod.

“Hawke.”

And a wink.

“Captain.”

Aveline’s role is simple too. The difference is that hers feeds into a bigger purpose, defining her and taking her places Hawke does not go. They are what they are, by either the laws of nature or power.

(It’s years before either of them realize Hawke bends to neither.)

 


	9. Anders I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 29/3/18]

* * *

  

"To fall in love is to create a religion that has a fallible god.”

— Jorge Luis Borges, _Other Inquisitions_

 

* * *

 

Out of the eight of them, Anders is the one she confides in, the one she trusts the most. Together, they do a lot of good: the abomination with his clinic, Hawke with her meddling. The biggest difference between them is that Anders means to save the world and everyone like him. Hawke’s plight is reserved for the city and any fool who dares stand in her way. Even so, Hawke is a bleeding heart and Anders is covered in all kinds of sharp edges.

There’s a kinship there like no other. There’s longing there, too. Fenris comes to see how foolish Hawke really is.

They revolve around each other—she and him, lost in their own worlds of magic and medicine. What bits of conversation Fenris catches by chance are filled with laughter and private looks that are less about love or lust and more about understanding and companionship. It’s a good, easy friendship and so Fenris remains ever vigilant, but he knows the one keeping Anders in check is Hawke.

Hawke, with her dirty jokes.

Hawke, with her lingering presence.

Hawke, with her admiration and shared intellect.

Hawke, with her desire, however misplaced, innocent and gentle for a fragile second.

Merrill slips in and out of the fray—the three of them are mages, after all, and Hawke proves to be even ground—but it’s Anders she spends slow days with, reading, talking, tending to the clinic if only to avoid the brunt of her mother’s guilt and her brother’s anger. Fenris knows this because she tells him on their nights together, very deep into her cups and very keen on sharing every mundane fact about her day because Varric is unavailable, and Carver won’t talk to her, and sometimes Isabela is too good at distracting her.

He half-listens, half-wonders if he’s sober enough to carry her home without disturbing her family.

(He’ll go on to carry her out of fires, battles, and, eventually, war.)

But in truth, Hawke’s gaze lingers on Anders more often than his on her and it’s pathetic, really. Then, she looks up at Fenris, sleepy but content, and asks him if he'll hold back her hair.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [EDIT: I liked this edited version so much more!!! The last line isn't meant to be a joke: I don't want it to seem like Fenris idolizes Hawke (beyond what is healthy and typical of a kindling love), so Hawke saying something so silly shows how much more real she is, on top of having feelings for Anders which makes her "fallible" in Fenris' view. It's also very sweet. Gross, but sweet.]
> 
> So when I first pursued the friendship path with Anders, I did get the impression that he was a little in love with Hawke, especially when he protests against Hawke's romance with Fenris. However, for my Hawke, I was always thought she was more in love with Anders than Anders was with her (in Act 1 anyway).
> 
> And yes, Isabela/Hawke was a thing in my playthrough but I didn't pursue it because ha, Fenris. Anders/Hawke never was though.


	10. Merrill II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 9/4/18]

* * *

 

“But I was not a mouse. In the fields where I walked, I was much more interested in the actions of the hawks.”

― Alice Hoffman, _The Marriage of Opposites_

 

* * *

  

“Why ‘Hawke’?”

Fenris stirs at the sound of Merrill’s voice.

He’s leaning against a tree stump, legs crossed, head heavy, sword within reach. He was seconds away from sleep, which is unlike him. The Wounded Coast is no place for easy rest. Yet, when he hears Hawke’s voice, he is able to close his eyes again.

“‘Why Hawke’?” she repeats. A laugh is lost somewhere between the call of nightbirds and the flickering of the campfire. “Merrill, it’s my name.”

_Ah_. There are no slavers here, only yearning.

“Yes, but why? Why not use your given one?”

He’s been waiting to ask that very same question, but exhaustion muddies the truth behind her reply.

“Because it’s easy to forget, I suppose.”

Then, his ears prick: She shuffles, boots in the dirt, and draws out a thoughtful, sweet sigh.

It is his half-asleep mind which envisions her lingering by the fire, a dreamy figure in the flames, engulfed then gone, forever, like her name. Fenris wonders if she was ever just a name.

(Hawke becomes a legend; the woman behind it dies.)

“Well,” Merrill says, after a moment, “I’ll always remember. I think it’s very pretty.”

Fenris doesn’t see it, but he knows Hawke smiles. He soon falls asleep, feeling oddly safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a squeal of delight when I found that quote.


	11. Sebastian II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Newly edited and updated: 9/4/18]

* * *

 

“For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.”

― Transfigurations 10:1, Canticle of Transfigurations

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, Hawke brings Sebastian into her companionship with open arms. There’s a kinship there that neither Fenris nor the others quite understand, one which sits unevenly between the prince and the champion like a fissure in a pond.

Sebastian says that she is a lot like him when he was younger and more frivolous. Both Varric and Fenris stopped their stride in anticipation for Hawke’s reaction, and Hawke—being Hawke—is unpredictable.

She was expressionless as she noted that there is little difference in age, certainly, but if she had lost Bethany and her father, or Leandra and her brother, to politics, Starkhaven would wish it had suffered under the brunt of the Blight.

It’s a jest; she’s vanquished as many darkspawn as any Warden has. Starkhaven wouldn’t stand a chance.

To his credit, however, Sebastian wasn’t thrown by her words. Instead, he was moved.

(What would she make of Sebastian now—learning from her choices, of all things.)

Hawke isn’t a religious woman. Whether that makes her godless, who could say, but her opinions of the Chantry border on blasphemy. This doesn’t stop Sebastian from trying to show her the goodness and the beauty of belief, as he looks for the same within himself. He expects so much and she is only too happy to let him believe in her if it draws him away from the blinding light of his faith and under her wing.

Of course, it’s not as simple as that. She cares for him. She feels empathy for him. She thinks he is a good man.

And he is: Time and time again, Fenris catches him whispering prayers under his breath as she stands in a field of corpses and lyrium-fire, the rage they all share manifesting in a woman who never asked to lead, rather than in a man born to. The Maker will not preserve her: she is only worthy of their waterlogged love and Sebastian is her most willing apostle.

 


	12. Anders II

* * *

 

“It’s a fitting punishment for a monster. To want something so much  
—to hold it in your arms  
—and know beyond a doubt you will never deserve it.”

― Renee Ahdieh,  _The Wrath and the Dawn_

 

* * *

 

“You don’t deserve her.”

Fenris surges, halted only by Sebastian and Aveline.

Alcohol adds to the fire in his blood and he glows, bright, bright blue-white.

(It’s the lightning before the boom, the fire before the burn. A different war they fought.)

“And what do you think she deserves, _mage_?”

Anders narrows his eyes, then turns away. “Better than us,” he says.

 


	13. Fenris II

* * *

 

“And he loves her. He loves her like he can never grab enough of her between his fingers. And no matter how close he gets, even when they make love, it never feels close enough.”  
— Iain S. Thomas, _Intentional Dissonance_

 

* * *

 

Hawke: flirty, sarcastic, and lacking in personal space. It’s a farce; Fenris understands that but little less.

(So, he watches.)

She’s drunk off her ass, another card game lost but no one keeps score anymore as long as the drinks keep coming and Varric’s tab never runs dry.

Fenris is careful enough to only take sips of the piss-ale as he keeps an eye on everyone. In hindsight, it seems like he cares but really, Isabela is a cheat and he trusts neither her nor Hawke from setting the tavern on fire. Or picking his pockets. Again.

Being sober is a necessary evil in the presence of these idiots.

He grins behind his cup as Varric continues his tale of the Bone Pit and the “valiant” Hawke for wide-eyed listeners and a gullible Merrill by the fireplace. Everything is as it should be until he hears Hawke laugh over the madness and he can’t stop his head from turning.

Head thrown back, wild hair flown astray as she clutches her stomach and forgets how to breathe. Anders sits, pensive, on her right, cheeks tinted pink with Hawke’s long legs thrown over his lap.

She’s practically sitting on him.

Isabela purrs at the other side of their table, saying something that sends Hawke into another fit and Anders rolls his eyes, sighing, but not too embarrassed to push the woman away yet.

_And it rushes back._

The tint of her skin by firelight, chest falling with every scarce breath shared between them.

His mouth catches the salt of her neck, tongue slipping out to trace the jut of her collarbones like he’s dreamed of for years.

Whimpers turned into moans, a home carved in the space between her hips, an empire too.

Lips drawn over his jaw, to his ears, and a whisper of his name, touched with a smile he’s never seen before.

Her hair, long and soft, fanned over pillows as she guides him in, deeper, then to the end, hands pawing at his back to be gentle but not that fucking gentle, damn it.

When it was over, before sleep came and stole it all away, He kissed her breasts and listened to her heartbeat with her fingers threaded in his silver hair. He was sure he was happy, he was sure he was safe and at peace in her arms.

And he wishes he had never slept that night or every night after.

She’s stopped laughing, calmed in the way the sea does after a storm but there is nothing disastrous about this. For once, there is nothing disastrous.

— Except she lays her head on Anders’ shoulder, suddenly tired, and Fenris looks away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I put down 29 chapters instead of 38. Oopsies. But yes, there will be 38 chapters instead of 29.
> 
> On another note, thank you for all the kudos and comments! They honestly make my day, each time.


	14. INTERLUDE: Leandra

Leandra is a jaded woman. _Was_ , a jaded woman. Yet, the stories never speak of Leandra, whom made Hawke, the leader; Hawke, the champion; Hawke, the guilty. Sometimes proud, other times disappointed and vindictive. They speak of Leandra as another tragedy, another lost soul for Hawke to bear.

But Hawke is born to carry burdens and she carried all of them, dead and living, from the Blight. That’s the story you want to hear, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, posted Beth's chapter here instead of Leandra's! It's fixed now.


	15. Varric II

* * *

 

“It goes on, this world, stupid and brutal.   
But I do not.   
I do not.”  
― Jennifer Donnelly,  _Revolution_

 

* * *

 

Varric is the one that brings Hawke out of mourning.

It’s been two weeks and Hawke refuses to leave her home, refuses to speak to anyone, even her brother who visits, once, at the call of their uncle.

One day, Varric decides enough is enough and goes out to gather them all, a little horde collected by Hawke’s front door. He tells them to wait, to be ready, before marching in, by himself.

And so they do wait, patient but tense and confused. Aveline voices her complaints —

“She’ll come out when she’s ready to.”

— But the guard-captain worries more than she’ll say.

(An unspoken truth between all of them.)

The door finally opens and they see her — paler, thinner with Varric’s hand on her back, leading her forward into the light.

Her eyes widen at the sight of them. They stand at attention, saying nothing but eager for words.

She looks over all of them, her gaze skimming past with an awe not common to Hawke. She is amazed, beyond shocked. But she smiles.

Small and weak as it is, it’s enough.

Then, she looks down at Varric who grins up at her. “Alright,” she says. “Alright.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I think of it, I should have posted this in conjunction with the last chapter. Ah well.
> 
> (Frankly, I wish there was a bigger expense on the scene with Aveline/the love interest coming to speak to Hawke after Leandra's death. Her death scene blindsided me and I never really recovered, honestly. Why is the Hawke family so painful.)


	16. INTERLUDE: Arishok

 

There is nothing as strange as open admittance of respect from qunari to baas.

To anyone who knows better, it is just another reminder of how easily women like Hawke win in a damned world like theirs. To people who love her, it is just another reminder of how much more it will hurt when she finally loses.

 


	17. Carver II

* * *

 

“I'm in misery where you can seem as old as your omens  
And the mother we share will never keep your proud head from falling  
The way is long but you can make it easy on me  
And the mother we share will never keep our cold hearts from calling”  
— “The Mother We Share” by CHVRCHES

 

* * *

 

It’s a surprise seeing Carver again after three years, but only that. A surprise. And not a very welcomed one either, each time it comes.

On his way out of Hightown, Fenris spots _Ser_ Carver, void of templar gear and bloodied knuckles, at Hawke’s doorstep. He’s staring up at the crest upon his ancestral home, brow scrunched under the cooling midday sun. Fenris sees his fists curl for a moment before falling slack at his sides. He seems to waver for one reason or another, posture shifty, before walking away and out of his sister’s shadow.

Fenris watches him go until he’s lost in the marketplace crowd and soon, the door to Hawke’s estate opens and sister and mother emerge, all in silk and laughing, arms interlocked.

Hawke catches sight of him before he can turn away and she waves, giddy and ignorant when he knew she was anything but.

He nods politely in retort and decides not to bring Carver up that day or on any day from then on. She seemed happy and he thinks, _let her be so, for as long as she can._

And then — Kirkwall is burning and too much has happened in the span of a year for what love left between brother and sister to be rekindled.

Naturally, their reunion is a bitter one.

(She recounts the moment that things could no longer be civil between them again, sparingly.)

“Wherever there’s trouble, that’s where you’ll find me,” she says —

“Last time trouble followed you, it found Mother.”

— And the grin dies on her face, along with whatever was left of their family.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion at the end of Act II tore my heart out. God damn it Carver, why, just why


	18. Aveline II

* * *

 

Let the blade pass through the flesh,  
Let my blood touch the ground,  
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice.  
― Andraste 7:12, _Canticle of Andraste_

 

* * *

 

He feels half a world away as he turns to the cry of his name, two more sten newly fallen at his feet, and sees Hawke, bleeding and coughing in the arms of the guard captain as a qunari charges.

Again: “ _Fenris_!”

Aveline’s shield rams back at the strike that follows her back-step. She holds Hawke in her sword arm, white gauntlet gleaming red, weapon abandoned, and weight doubled by the weakening of Hawke’s legs as she sags, hands moving uselessly with her errant healing magic over the lash across her stomach.

There is no way to go but into an alcove, a death trap.

The qunari’s sword rises again before an arrow flies, piercing thick muscle and bone. His strike misses by a foot and the qunari releases nothing more than a grunt and steps back, turning around.

Sebastian shoots again, swift from his perch on the steps leading into the Keep. The warrior does not go down easy but qunari never do, Fenris’s sword meeting body after body.

Aveline calls for him once more as Hawke’s head lolls to and fro, arms falling too suddenly at her sides.

Everything beyond that moment is meaningless.

(The Battle for Kirkwall is meaningless too, bound to repeat itself until the dawn comes.)

He does little more than carve a path to Hawke and Aveline. The templars and mages behind him react, roused by the break in formation and splinter into the qunari like the blight itself.

When he reaches them, Aveline pushes Hawke into Fenris’ awaiting grip, skids around him to retrieve her sword and pushes a charging sten to the ground.

His throat meets a quick end by the heel of Aveline’s boot.

Fenris lays Hawke, as gently and as quickly as he can, against a wall. Blood floods through the gaps between his fingers, the clawed tipped gauntlets scratching at her tunic.

“Get her on her feet!”

Fenris complies, nudging Hawke’s cheek with his free hand.

Eyes slip open and shut but her hands rise, naked and unguarded, over his. Heat rushes to all corners of his body, fire under his skin but he grits his teeth and catches his breath. It feels good but still invading.

Soon, Hawke’s eyes refocus and they shift, near-dead, to Fenris. Their gaze is broken as more qunari come through the alcove. He quickly gets her on feet, pulling her back until she’s pulling herself forward, then free from his grip.

She is without her staff but patience is waning and there is no time for this.

Fire cuts through the air, from the cores of her palms in a wave of fury. Screams are heard, the first from the qunari thus far in the battle, before the magic sizzles and dies. With a groan, Hawke collapses to her knees and Aveline and Fenris follow the devastating inferno with a swift charge.

Blood streaks the walls, bodies amount, and that is the end of it.

A silence like no other settles in the courtyard, templar and mage alike panting and groaning but un-speaking, for the moment.

Hawke rises again, slowly but surely, and retrieves her misplaced staff. She refuses help from both of them.

Before they move on, Hawke rests a single hand on Aveline’s shoulder, gripping it tight. Her bloody hand leaves a print.

“Thank you, Aveline,” she says and nothing more. Aveline nods.

 


	19. Isabela II

* * *

 

“So collect your courage and collect your horse  
And pray you never feel this same kind of remorse”  
— “Dust Bowl Dance” by Mumford & Sons

 

* * *

 

Hawke, for all her threats and reputation, is rarely enraged. The only carnage she intentionally brings about is during battle, blood and gore scarring the ground around her as she remains untouched, unbroken, and uncaring. But the qunaris’ grab for the city is not one such battle and her robes are tattered and stained and _she is angry_.

When Isabela returns, right when she needs to, Fenris sees something he doesn’t except and it’s not Isabela’s admitting she was wrong, that she does in fact care or a qunari’s open respect towards a human and a mage.

What he sees is a violence in Hawke’s eyes that never quite leaves her after that day.

(In the end, Hawke risks a war because she loves them all too much. It becomes a repeating theme.)

 


	20. Aveline III

* * *

 

“Whoever knows you when you are young can look inside you and see the person you once were, and maybe still are at certain times.”   
― Alice Hoffman,  _The Marriage of Opposites_

 

* * *

 

“I wonder what she was like as a child.”

The statement is so abrupt and absurd that Fenris stops sharpening his sword.

They’re out of earshot of Hawke and the rest, the lot of them currently mulling over their next destination along the coast beside the campfire.

Fenris resumes his task, saying nothing more than: “It’s hard to imagine her as a child.”

And it’s true. To everyone but them, she burst from the ground like a darkspawn and culled the qunari invasion with a single fireball. To Fenris, the thought of her as anything but the stubborn, resilient woman that she is stuns in him a way he can’t describe. Besides, he hasn’t regained the right to imagine such personal things.

“I can,” Aveline says. “When we met, she still was one.”

Again, the idea is startling. Hawke, a refugee fresh off the boat, half-starved, half-angry with a missing sister and a long-dead father, willing to do anything and everything to keep her family fed. And she has. She did.

(But that is not the child Aveline speaks of — children don’t start wars.)

“I followed her. A child.” She lets out a small, bitter laugh. “I followed her because I was too blind and too grieved to lead. But it’s been years and we still follow her. Don’t you think it’s strange, Fenris? How she so easily leads?”

“You’re captain of the guard, Aveline.”

She laughs again, this time not so bitterly. “True. But that is duty and this is want. Compulsion, maybe.”

He looks back at Hawke. She stands by the fire, hands outstretched to catch the heat, the flickering flames illuminating her warm skin, bright eyes, and everything far and distant about her that neither understood but respect.

“Your reason is simple,” Aveline says. Neither look away. “You love her. But that wasn’t always so and I have other duties. Yet, here I am.”

He doesn’t reply and, eventually, returns to his sword.

 


	21. Sebastian III

* * *

 

“Maker, my enemies are abundant.  
Many are those who rise up against me.  
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,  
Should they set themselves against me.”  
— Trials 1:1, _Canticle of Transfigurations_

 

* * *

 

In some ways, Sebastian and Fenris are similar. Varric would be the man to explain how and why, but it always comes down to Hawke.

The prince-to-be speaks of Hawke as viscount as if it’s a viable option, as if she wasn’t an apostate or the flippant bane of existence to many nobles in the city. Champion of Kirwall or not, capable woman or not, the Free Marches would riot the day Hawke rose to power.

Worse yet, Hawke entertains the idea.

“Hawke is more than a mage,” Sebastian says. “She’d do this city right!”

The woman in question gives a noncommittal shrug and allows the conversation to spin madly around her.

“Hey, aren’t you going to do something?” Varric asks.

“What should I do exactly?”

Varric opens his mouth to speak but then thinks better of it, looking around wearily.

There are many eyes in the chantry, and many ears. Hawke has done well to walk the line between mage and templar but she’s a threat nonetheless and Meredith waits for cause. Elthina does nothing to temper that want, as is her way.

During his proclamations, Sebastian looks over to her to with a passion that shines on reverence. And it might be.

They all see something in Hawke that is inspirational, that is endearing, that is hopeful. She’s born to lead, some would argue, and born to make bad jokes. But Hawke doesn’t notice, doesn’t care and that suggests a lot more than anyone is ready to admit.

(Everyone loves Hawke.)

 


	22. Merrill III

* * *

 

“She was a curious girl, a wanderer, who spent her summers chasing fluttering pieces of prose and eating strawberries.”  
— Michael Faudet

 

* * *

 

Hawke loves Merrill, in spite of their differences.

The two have the politest arguments he has ever seen but Hawke is resolute in her opposition to what Merrill might achieve and that could spark a wildfire if Hawke was not Hawke.

(In her goodbye letters, one for each of them, she writes: “I love you all. Truly.”)

Fenris does not worry when Hawke wraps Merrill’s hand in hers and leads them through the Hightown markets to the dress stalls.

He does not look up when she allows Merrill to sleep against her shoulder during another night on the Wounded Coast and the sunrise comes spiraling in over the waters.

He does not think twice when she leans down to kiss Merrill’s cheek when the elf brings flowers for Leandra’s grave, Fenris intent on watching from the balcony of the library.

He does not wonder why when she tells Merrill secret things of her youth that only another mage and another woman would understand.

And when they return from Sundermont, Hawke holding Merrill close as she would any flock-less bird and whispering something into Merrill’s ear, Fenris does not think it right to judge Hawke for this — for her love, no matter how foolish.

Then, they part on nothing more than those hushed words and it is Hawke that remains by Merrill’s side, not the other way around.

That, Fenris understands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious that I love Merrill? Because I do.


	23. Fenris III

* * *

 

“i like my body when it is with your  
body. It is so quite a new thing.  
/and possibly i like the thrill  
of under me you quite so new”  
— e.e. cummings

 

* * *

 

Dawn is on the rise and neither of them have slept; there’s a lot to make up for after three years and, as it turns out, Fenris is insatiable. She manages to slip from his arms and takes the thin blanket with her, curling it loosely around her body as she stands.

Fenris enjoys the view, stretched out on the bed and shameless in his nudity — something he comes to appreciate more and more now — as she goes about pouring water into a washbin.

He decides that as much as she loves her sweaty, delirious, and under him, he loves her just the same now, basked in the glow of early morning light, a sacred image not even Andraste could match. He studies the gentleness she takes in cleaning herself, how she pulls her mussed hair back to press a wet cloth to her neck, littered with dark bruises — how she moans at the feeling of cold water against hot skin, the way a droplet wanders down the length of her throat and he finds himself wanting to take her again, right there, but slower, harder, deeper. To think: He would have more mornings like this from now on, if she so wills it.

But the thought is overwhelming and his smile fades into something that is indeed reverence  
  
Something must have caught her attention because she glances back at him, wash cloth pressed to her chest now, and gives him a curious smile.

“Something wrong, Fenris?”

“Yes.” _I love you_ , he means to say. “Come back to bed.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have used the entire poem but it seemed a little excessive. Either way, I think you should look up the full poem. It's one of my favorites.


	24. Varric III

* * *

 

“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
We should just kiss like real people do”  
— “Like Real People do” by Hozier

 

* * *

 

“So, elf.”

Fenris sighs. It was going to happen sooner or later.

Varric has pen and parchment at the ready and Fenris knows there’s no escaping this.

“What do you want, Varric?”

“Did you kiss her first or did she kiss you? I have to get this right, you know.”

The exasperation on his face is evident and Varric duly takes note.

“I’ll just say you both went in for the kiss, then.”  
  
(Hawke never said she wanted an honest-to-Maker biography, now did she?)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Varric puts Hawke and their love interest in his book and they become everyone's OTP.


	25. Isabela III

* * *

 

"The trouble with being a woman,  
is being a little girl in the first place.  
Not all the books of the world will change that.”  
— Anne Sexton, _The Complete Poems: Anne Sexton_

 

* * *

 

She never tells Isabela this but Hawke whispers the words to Fenris over wine by the fireplace.

She’s laid across black furs, free in her nakedness, with one leg thrown over his lap. His hand marvels in the strength of her thighs, the heat of her skin, his desire sated for another hour as he pricks up to attention at the sound of her voice.

“I’m happy Isabela wears the dresses mother bought for me,” she says.

She is weary, sleepy, but happy. It’s a nice change for once.

“Someone should,” she adds and he leans over to kiss her softly.

(The last letter Isabela ever sends comes attached with a parcel of blood red silk.)

 


	26. Carver III

* * *

 

“But on dark days he likes to walk  
Beside the heartsick sea.  
And as the waves begin to howl  
He drops down to his knees,  
And cries for all he's lost  
And for all he used to be.”  
― Kate Tempest, Hold Your Own

 

* * *

 

“Will you see her again?”

Fenris stops eating, spoon half way to his mouth, and scowls. “What?”

Hawke doesn’t seem unnerved by the sudden change in mood, digging at her food, posture lax as if the topic to follow was...simple.

“Varania. Will you see her again?”

Fenris stares at her for a long moment before dropping the spoon with a clatter. “That’s not...” He clears his throat and looks away, cheeks flushed for being so easily unsettled. “I’m not sure,” he says, voice strained.

Danarius’ grave is not yet cold (enough) and...and —

She nods and they resume eating in complete silence. Later, when they’ve gone to bed, feeling spent and at peace, she presses against him, wrapping her naked self around him tight as if she fears he’ll leave again.

(Every night spent with her, she is held, she is safe, she is grounded.)

“I would do anything to see my sister again,” she whispers into his skin, face hidden in the crook of his neck. Then, her body shakes in his arms and she bites out: “And my brother, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively I was going to use the lyrics from “The Woods” by Daughter:
> 
> “I asked Saint Christoper to find your sister”/ “And I pray a lot for you”. Seemed fitting but that quote won out.


	27. INTERLUDE: Gamlen

To say that Gamlen is proud of his niece would be...a stretch. He is not his sister; he never put his hopes in Hawke and vice versa. There is no love between them, only a flicker of obligation. She is too much like her father for falsities.

Though, he supposes that’s why she still lives. That is why she is Hawke and not Amell — why he laughs when he hears rumors of her death after Kirkwall goes to shit.


	28. Anders III

* * *

 

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”  
― Trials 1:1, _Canticle of Trials_

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t know what he expects from Hawke. He doesn’t know what any of them expect from Hawke but the decision lies with her, as does everything else.

Years ago, he would not hesitate — let the crime be answered, just and swift — but this was bound to happen, one way or another. Kirkwall is ripe with injustice and the only tribute to blood lost is more blood.

Fenris knows this.

And so does Hawke as she weighs the blade in her hand, the gavel and the noose.  
Fenris doesn’t tell her what else he knows, however.

He doesn’t tell her that he knows that, as she presses the knife to Ander’s back, she clutches his shoulder and whispers into his ear:

“I’ll finish what you started. And Maker be damned, we will be free.”

And Anders smiles.

(Fenris knows better than anyone else that, Maker be damned, caged animals bite _back_.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I killed Anders. Why? Because I enjoy angst. Lots of angst. Plus: I'm the type of writer who likes making a bad situation, sad...and also because his death wasn't sad enough in game, frankly.
> 
> (Though, I have seen some players severely judge others for killing Anders during this point and I was honestly a little afraid about posting this but hey, angst. So much angst. )


	29. INTERLUDE: Dog

If there was ever a more loyal companion, Hawke’s mabari would be a close second. Besides, everyone loves a dog in the story — breathes a spirit into the tale like no other. But no one likes to hear the story of how the dog dies.

No one wants to know about the way he flung himself in front of his master for an arrow and collapsed, all too quickly and violently. No one dares to imagine the heroine fall to her knees, cradling the dog to her breast as its strength wanes. No one likes to think of our noble maiden crying harder than she did for any of the other fallen characters. No one wants the dog to die.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize for this...?


	30. Merrill IV

* * *

 

“Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine.”  
― Charlotte Brontë,  _Jane Eyre_

 

* * *

 

Fenris lays the mabari down as gently as he can, its soft whimpers and choked sounds still a cause for concern. Then, he takes a step back and allows what he knows is going to happen, to happen.

“I’ll take care of him,” Merrill says simply, but it’s a promise too at least.

Hawke bites her lip and says nothing, staring down at her old, wounded friend on the mat laid by Merrill’s feet. She grips her staff tight with both hands and Fenris sees how her shoulders begin to shake.

Merrill calls out to her, once, twice — using her first name, not her last — and Hawke manages to tear her gaze away.

The elf smiles and moves to bring her into a long embrace that is only fitting for a goodbye as the city burns.

“I could always count on you, Merrill,” Hawke laughs, a sob hitched in her throat, and Merrill kisses her forehead before cupping her cheek.

She looks long and hard into Hawke’s eyes. “Goodbye Hawke,” she says, finally, and pulls her hand away. “And stay safe for me.”

(Hawke promises to not look back — and she doesn’t.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fix-it chapter.
> 
> This is not exactly in the epilogue since I'm picturing this happening during the final battle, during a calm moment after you fight off the first wave in Lowtown, but it can work post game too. I'm sure some templars still want to murder Hawke after the whole Meredith thing.


	31. Carver IV

* * *

 

“It takes courage to say goodbye. To stare at a thing lost and know it is gone forever. Some tears are iron forged.”  
― Jay Kristoff,  _Kinslayer_

 

* * *

 

“Carver won’t like this,” Aveline repeats, arms crossed and watching Hawke dart from one corner of the room to another.

There is very little to like about the day. Red lyrium, templars, Kirkwall in an greater upstart — things have somehow gone from bad to catastrophic as Hawke places herself as its centerpiece, again.

“Carver can eat mabari shit,” Hawke laughs, then stops her panicked packing, suddenly shaken, suddenly still, chuckle dead in the air.

Her eyes are wide with horror. Fenris and Varric look to her, ready for whatever has her stricken with such vivid, choking fear.

(It’s a dead sister, a dead mother, a dead friend.)

She drops her things, stalks over to Aveline and grabs the woman by the shoulders.

Hawke’s hands are shaking too and Fenris’ throat feels too tight.

“Keep him safe, Aveline,” she says, voice and breath harsh. “ _And Maker willing, keep him from following me_.”

 


	32. Aveline IV

* * *

 

“I didn’t always have things, but I had people—I always had people.”   
― Ta-Nehisi Coates,  _Between the World and Me_

 

* * *

 

“Hawke.”

Aveline stands at the ready but sword and shield remain complacent. Hawke is no different; there is no battle in her now, only goodbyes.

He watches on quietly.

“Please do as I say, Aveline.”

The woman steps forward.

Hawke raises her hand. “No. You cannot follow me where I’m going.”

“But Isabela can? Do you even know where you’re going?”

“I need her ship, Aveline. Don’t fight me on this. Just do this — and your duty.”

It’s the hammer striking the nail. Aveline goes stiff. Hawke is not her duty — _Hawke is her friend._ The sentiment lingers in the air but so does war and there is little time left.

But Hawke smiles, anyway.

“This is goodbye, Guard-Captain,” she says, voice breaking.

Aveline breathes in a long, slow breath. She sheathes her sword and shield and simply gives out her arm.

“Hawke.”

They shake, nod, and part.

“Captain.”

(It’s a good end as any, except for the fire and the blood and the war wounds that’ll never heal.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something about the "found family" theme in Dragon Age 2 that makes me love it more than the other games. And also makes me incredibly emotional, dear god.


	33. Isabela IV

* * *

 

“She wanted to say 'I love you like a thunderstorm, like a lion, like a helpless rage'...”  
― Ken Follett,  _The Pillars of the Earth_

 

* * *

 

Isabela doesn’t say goodbye. Instead, she looks out to the waters of the Waking Sea, to her ship, strong, beautiful, and new.

“Things are going to be exceptionally boring without you, Hawke,” she says. “I hope you know that.”

And Hawke just laughs.

(They all expected Isabela to leave, not the other way around.)

 


	34. Sebastian IV

* * *

 

“The one who repents, who has faith,  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
She shall know true peace.”  
― Transfigurations 10:1, _Canticle of Transfigurations_

 

* * *

 

Like Hawke, Sebastian pays his dues.

He returns to Starkhaven; he claims his kingdom; he makes Hawke proud. Well.

Possibly.

She reads Isabela’s letter as she sits on the low bridge of a stream, swinging her legs over the edge while Fenris fills their waterskins. From the corner of his eye, he watches her. Usually Isabela’s script would have her smiling but not today, apparently.

Page after page, Hawke’s face remains stoic spare for the occasional lift of her brow and a slight frown. When she’s done reading, she rather slowly places the letter back into her satchel before lying on her back, looking up towards the sky.

After a worried moment, Fenris speaks, tightening the cork on the waterksin. “You’re...displeased?”

She takes in a breath and lurches back up, a smile tight on her face. “No. No, not at all. This is my happy face. Don’t I look happy? Because I’m happy. For him. Happy, that is.”

He gives her a look. She sighs, rolling her eyes. The smile is briefly genuine before it falters altogether and she returns to that soft, lost expression he catches her wearing whenever they have a moment of silence.

She doesn’t look at Fenris as she speaks. “He once said we were alike. I wonder if we still are.”

He walks back up to the bridge, sets aside their waterskins, and sits besides her. He kept his silence for a while, letting them both enjoy the sounds of midsummer.

The day was utterly splendid; the Free Marches were bursting with summer heat, the wild countryside a bounty of life and insect bites, wildflowers from here to the horizon. This change in season had eased their travel wary hearts some, but not by much evidently.

Fenris had hoped for a little kindness from today.

“So, you are displeased by the news,” he says, eventually.

“Only in the way that I worry. War is coming, after all.” She lowers her head and bites her lip before adding, “I encouraged him to reach this point. He encouraged me to be viscount. And now...” Hawke sighs softly.

“That wouldn’t have changed anything,” he says.

(Hawke could never save everyone, is what he really means.)

“Still...” Her gaze drifts off into the unending idyllic, green plains and Fenris realizes Kirkwall lies in that direction. “I feel betrayed, in a way. Robbed.”

“I wonder,” he says after a beat, “did you ever seriously consider becoming viscount?”

She gives him a loose smile that is more sheepish than cute. He narrows his eyes.

“Hawke.”

She huffs a laugh and reaches over to pinch his cheek, just to make him glare harder. “Not seriously, no. But I had expectations. Dreams.” She then stretches her hand flat against his cheek, thumb caressing, palm cool against his skin.  
  
“I am happy Sebastian got his home and his birthright back, but I wonder if it took losing mine and more to push him to that point.”

His frowns deepens and he brings his hand against hers on his cheek, keeping it there. “Kirkwall was bound to fall,” he says.

The words are strange in his mouth but it’s the truth.

“Anders did what he had to do. And so did I.” There’s a flicker of determination in her eyes but it dies, just as quickly. She takes in a shaky breath. “That’s not the point. The point is — I don’t know. I...didn’t want this for us, Fenris.”

He smiles. “I know.”

“You’ve been running long enough and Maker knows you’ve deserve so much more than this.”

“Hawke — ” When she pulls her hand away, he lets her before tenderly taking hold of her chin to keep her gaze from drifting away. “I know. _I know_.”

She searches his face for something. A lie, perhaps. She finds none and the pain in her eyes is as genuine as is the joy.

“You deserve a home, Fenris. I meant to give you that, or build one with you.”

He can’t help the light chuckles that escapes his lips and he presses a kiss to her cheek, dropping his hand. “I am content where ever you are, Hawke. Besides, we have friends in many places now. We can make a home anywhere. If you’d like.”

She hums and tilts her head to the side in mock consideration. “The Prince of Starkhaven harboring the fallen Champion of Kirkwall and her literally-heart-wrenching lover. _Woof_. What a scandal.”

He scoffs. “Insufferable.”

“You love me,” she says before tugging him close and kissing him silly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. If you're buddies with a Prince, cash in on that. Unless you have to kill your other friend to do so. Then...don't?


	35. Varric IV

* * *

 

“And I'm learning, so I'm leaving  
And even though I'm grieving  
I'm trying to find the meaning”  
—  “St. Jude” by Florence + the Machine

 

* * *

 

Varric means well.

He really does.

But Fenris finds that he can’t hold Varric to his word quite as well as Hawk can, especially when they’re both keeping things from him.

He crushes the parchment and begins again. Less threats this time. Better script. Hawke would be proud, but she sleeps, restlessly, behind him and he knows he’s keeping things too. 

(“If anything happens to her Varric, I will find you and strangle you.” —  And he tries again.)

 


	36. Anders IV

* * *

 

“I loved my friend  
He went away from me  
There's nothing more to say  
The poem ends,  
Soft as it began -  
I loved my friend.”  
― Langston Hughes

 

* * *

 

They lie together, naked amongst coarse blankets and furs, legs entwined. For the moment they are safe, nothing to disturb them despite the nosy foreign tavern below.

She presses her nose into the crook of his neck and whispers something.

His hand slides slowly over the curve of her hips, the span of her back, and to her neck where his fingers are lost in her hair and he kisses, softly, at her lips.

When they part, she sighs, long and low.

It seems good enough — it is good enough but Kirkwall burns still and their friends are scattered to the wind.

(One is dead.)

She tells him, as the dawn comes in, that she regrets it.

“He was my friend.” His arms tighten around her waist, her face still hidden against his neck. She continues, voice strained and distant despite being so close. “He was my friend, Fenris. I loved him. And I killed him.”

In the morning, he wakes to her staring out the window, a grey morning ahead of them. In one hand, she clutches the blanket around her shoulders. In the other, a blade he thought lost too, along with everything else.

He whispers her name. She returns to him but not whole.

Never whole.

To think, of all people, Anders’ death is the one to make her weep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This was the first chapter I wrote for this collection.
> 
> And I actually started bawling when I discovered that poem. It's frankly one of the most upsetting things to imagine a day where your closest friend is no longer around, either by choice or by an unstoppable force.


	37. INTERLUDE: Malcolm

Of those who knew him, see Malcolm within her. She’s just as brave, just as fiery, but achieved greater. Became greater. So she ponders, from time to time — would he be proud?

Malcolm’s ghost is a silent one. She rarely feels it, rarely thinks of him these days but he’s there. He is not as loud as Bethany’s dying screams or as haunting as the stitched neck of her mother’s inhuman corpse. But he’s there. He’s a shadow, one none of Hawke’s new family catch in the corner of their eyes.

He only comes to her as she dreams of marriage and children. It’s a stern, gentle hand on her shoulder to know he’s there. But when she turns her head, he is not.   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more page to go.


	38. Fenris IV

* * *

 

“No hope in the air,   
no hope in the water,  
not even for me,   
your last serving daughter”  
— “Hope in the Air” by Laura Marling

 

* * *

 

She thinks about leaving him before dawn but the irony of doing so isn’t lost on her and Fenris is too much of a light sleeper for that. She tries writing letters, something to weather his anger in the coming months, but that fails too. She asks Varric for advice but all he gives is a strongly worded reply of, “This is your choice, Hawke” and nothing more.

Her dreams don’t help much either. She wakes, in the middle of the night, covered in sweat and the taste of blood in her mouth. She dreams of Bethany, Meredith, and, fittingly enough, darkspawn. But mostly, it is Anders and the world she helped set aflame, turned bright, bright red over a lightening stripped palm.

(The worst dreams are the happy ones.)  
*  
And the world continues to weigh on her.

Thedas echoes with the sound of war drums and Kirkwall is yet washed clean of its sins. It all points to her, the Champion, the revolutionary, the refugee, to take action and undo what has been done and save the fucking world.

Of course, no one says that. No one wants that from her, or of anyone. Other heroes will rise to the occasion but this is something she has to do. If there is one sin she can right, it’s the demons that followed her up from the Deep Roads.

So, she doesn’t stow away under the dark of night. She doesn’t send him on a fool’s errand and have him return to an empty campsite and a letter with his name on it. She dawns her armor, readies her pack, and reaches out to her contacts, making sure she leaves no trail to follow as Fenris watches on in silence.

The day arrives far quicker than either would like but there’s nothing that can be done about it.

They travel together on horseback until they reach the shore where a lone boat awaits in the night time mist, its lantern in the distance foreboding.

Fenris wishes it would dim and sink into the water, never to return.

He says nothing about that, however. He helps her off their horse, his hands on her waist a little tighter than needed and they walk hand-in-hand to the cliff-side where she will make her way down and on to Fereldan. From there, he knows nothing else. She refuses to tell him.

He whispers her name and she looks away from the deep, dark sea, her eyes heavy and tired and sad. Still, a grin plays on her lips, however slight.

He draws back her hood so he can look at her right, hair flung free and dancing in the wind, and dedicates the moment to memory. In the waning light, she seems as young and bright as the day they first met but he knows better. Wrinkles press at her corner of her mouth, indented deep, and it hurts to know he’ll never able to kiss them again.

He cups her face in his hands and promises to remember the feel of her smile and the hot flush of her skin as he leans in to press his mouth against hers.

He tries to kiss her the way she first kissed him, tries to make it last.

His touch is long and tender — and delicate. So delicate, it would break him to do anything else but kiss her like this. Forever, if he could. Maker, does he wish he could.

When lips part, they lean into each other, eyes squeezed shut, foreheads pressed together. Her fingers curl around his wrists and guide his hands away from her face so that he might hold her properly.

“This isn’t in the end, Fenris,” she says but her tone betrays her; she thinks this is goodbye.

He will not cry. He will not.

“And I will not allow it to be.”

He means it — tugs her back to arm’s length so that he can look her in the eye, and says, “Hawke, I will not allow it. Know that where ever you may be, _I will find you again_.”

She nods and he can see she’s fighting herself more than ever now.

“I will find you,” he swears and kisses her one last time.

 

fin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. That's the end.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, and bookmarking this story. I can't tell you how happy each one of you has made me and how encouraging this has all been. I didn't expect to succeed at all with this silly little thing. 
> 
> There will be no continuations of this, but possibly a sequel with the DA:I characters. We'll see
> 
> On another note, you can find me on my main blog: mage-light.tumblr.com or where I'll be posting upcoming stories, here before I post them on Ao3: elfapostate.tumblr.com
> 
> So that's it. Thank you for everything.


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